


Mettaton Does Not Exist

by bluecrownedmotmot



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Masochism, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6852967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecrownedmotmot/pseuds/bluecrownedmotmot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post pacifist ending. Mettaton enjoys the vagaries of pointless masturbation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mettaton Does Not Exist

All was going smoothly until the change in time signatures. Mettaton tapped his heel on the stage counting beats.

_Let this be the last time through this fucking godforsaken duet_ , he prayed.

But, naturally, Shyren came in too soon. She corrected when Mettaton came in on cue, and their vocal parts fit together as they should have. The lapse would have been imperceptible to an audience, but she knew what was coming.

“Too early!” Mettaton screamed at the end of their phrase. Napstablook cut the music and bent over the mixing console, exhausted.

“I know! I'm sorry!” Shyren cried.

“You have the melody part,” Mettaton pointed out tightly, “the least you could do is learn to count.”

Shyren sighed. “I can't do this anymore today. We're an hour over anyway.”

“Well, we'll call it here and try to suck less tomorrow, yes?”

Napstablook wearily gathered themselves up to exchange a sympathetic glance with Shyren as she fluttered back into the wings. When she was gone, the ghost shot the robot an exasperated look.

“What?” snapped Mettaton.

“Can we try to get along?” suggested Napstablook.

“Oh yes. You're right. I'm sure that _how well we get along_ will be the highlight of each and every one of our wonderful reviews, cousin.”

“Oh... It's useless.” Napstablook floated off to their dressing room.

Alone on stage, Mettaton scuffed the x of spike tape marking where he was supposed to stand with his toe. _You dummy_ , he scolded inwardly.

 

As he passed by Shyren's door, Mettaton paused. He knocked once, lightly.

“Yes?” Shyren called out.

“I'm sorry, dear. I just want us to be perfect.”

“I know, Metta,” she said calmly.

“You worked hard today. I'm sure we'll get it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow...” echoed Lemon Bread from somewhere beyond the door.

“'Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time,'” returned Mettaton, with dramatic despondence. At least one of the monsters that composed Lemon Bread (probably Shyren's sister, but who could tell) got the joke and laughed eerily. Mettaton smiled.

“Goodnight, Metta,” said Shyren kindly.

“'Night, darling.”

 

Mettaton's dressing room was a mess. It wasn't _entirely_ his fault. Subsequent to the band's first tour, fans were sending armloads of mail on a daily basis. Burgerpants, surprisingly, did a commendable job attempting to organize for his boss, but the system broke down when Mettaton wasn't keeping up with winnowing the sorted piles.

Tonight, once again, Mettaton didn't want to deal with anything. He didn't want to _see_ any of it, either. He flipped off the overhead light and locked the door behind him. He turned on a small lamp near the door instead and threw a sheer robe from the coat hooks over the shade.

_That's better, isn't it?_

He plopped down in the chair set before the vanity, pulled on his headphones, and selected a playlist. He was mentally drained from today's rehearsal. He winked at himself slowly in the looking glass.

_Hello, there beautiful. You have the evening to yourself. What do you want to do?_

 

He wiped his face with a damp cloth while he considered his options. He could hang out with Blooky or Shyren... Yeah, right. They were all sick of each other after preparing to open this new show. Alphys was definitely out. She had a date with Undyne tonight. He could go out by himself... He didn't want to deal with the hassle. Being famous was a real pain in the ass. Well, that was that. Back to his apartment, it was.

_But not yet_.

 

He turned down the volume of his music to a pleasant murmur. He gazed at his reflection again. He had discovered something fun in low light. If he just waited, his features would start to warp in the periphery of his vision. If he stared long enough, the effect could get more and more unsettling. He found it entertaining in his idle moments. Was this something everyone did? It was hard to question people who, for the most part, took the peculiarities of their physical existence for granted.

The only one who plagued him with conversations about stuff like that was Alphys. He talked to her about his sense of touch when she asked. She had worked hard on it, embedding countless electrodes in a nerve-like net within his surfaces as she had built EX. She was pleased by how well it had turned out for him, impressed by the incredible degree of plasticity ghosts must exhibit to be able to adapt to their objects... Or something like that. He usually tuned her scientific chatter out.

At first, he had just felt pressure when he touched things. Too much of it hurt. But as he had become accustomed to the build, he began to feel all sorts of bizarre complexities of touch. It was so different from his box form. He was confused at times by the multitude of feelings he gradually identified. Something sharp dragged along his body felt like a prickling electrical charge. Sunshine felt like flames licking at him. Soft things, like his chair right now, were cozy and appealing.

 

His face began to crawl.

His face. Funny how readily he had accepted it as his. He adored it. It was distasteful yet fascinating to see it change. He looked into his eyes. They remained stable dark pits as everything else writhed and rearranged. His entire visage would reform, sometimes into another person if he looked off to the side. But any spot would sink back down, behave itself, as soon as he gave it his direct attention. Strange.

 

Something else that struck him as odd was how his feelings had remained the same despite all the change in his life. He had become famous, he had gained his dream body, he had realized the importance of his friends, he had moved to the surface, he was thriving amongst humans... And yet here he was. Alone.

_Well, well, well._

He felt a little unmoored from life. There were more good parts to it than bad, certainly, but the fame was not all good. Many humans loved him, but not all were welcoming. There were more consequences to living on the surface than he had anticipated.

He closed his eyes. He felt comfortable in his upholstered chair, in his dark little space. In his mind, his face was continuing to shift in front of a restless crowd.

 

Mettaton removed his gloves.

He pulled a drawer open without looking, found a bottle without looking, poured lubricant into his palm without looking.

He drummed his tapered fingertips against his abdomen and felt the vibration tickle his soul within. He trailed the sides of his fingers down his lower body, reaching underneath his latex covering to caress himself.

He opened his eyes and his face, of course, was normal again. He gave himself a sultry pout. God, he was gorgeous.

He played with himself until his was quite firm, and then he wiggled his leggings down teasingly in the mirror. He slumped down in the chair, stretched his legs, and set his heels delicately up, spread them amidst the chaos on his counter. He made sure he could still see his face. It was pale in the semi-dark, wreathed by his bright white headphones.

He stroked himself and stared into his dark eyes again to conjure up the illusion once more. He pretended he had an audience. He couldn't help but smile. He craved the attention he received onstage; without that intensity, he just seemed empty. But, in his darker moods, the sea of faces could also seem like nothing but a meaningless backdrop, one that could crash down whenever fate determined. The risk of that turned him on incredibly.

 

He gasped. His own grip felt good, and with his face becoming strange and unfamiliar again, it was like he did have some other person watching. He cupped his balls with his off hand. Stroked himself harder. Was he real? Who was Mettaton anyway? An false illusion. A synthetic puppet. _Nothing_.

_Everything you've got. After all, who cared about you when you were a ghost?_

He wondered, not for the first time, if he was irreparably damaged from not being a complete entity for so long. Maybe he was addicted to himself, his own concerns, unable to appropriately feel for anything but him. Was that true? _Was it?_

“Don't think about it right now. I want you to come, fucker,” he said out loud, just to hear his own voice.

Mettaton brought his off hand to his mouth, shoved his naked index and middle fingers together into his mouth, wrapped his tongue around them. Sucked. He watched his lips and throat move in the fuzzy darkness. He released his fingers slowly back through his lips. He bared his wrist, dug his eyeteeth against it, driving a stake of pain through him. There was a bundle of the electrodes that innervated his hand in that spot, close to the surface. He whimpered. He didn't understand why he felt pleasure from hurting himself. That was one of the mysteries of sensation, wasn't it?

He just wanted to drown out the world, kill reality, erase himself from existence for just a few moments.

He was getting close. His toes were twitching. He stared down his reflection. It rippled sinisterly when he opened his mouth. He pulled the roots of his hair with twisted fingers. Tight, so that it hurt dreadfully as he focused on rubbing the underside of his cock. He closed his eyes for the second that he came and his mind went blank, but he opened them again quickly to watch as he made a mess of his stomach.

He stared at the ceiling, letting his mind wander for a while. The music whispered faintly in his ear, ' _They know my weaknesses, they know my weaknesses_...' He cleaned himself off carefully to avoid dripping onto his favorite chair.

 

He sat back upright and looked at himself again, thoughtfully.

_You're pretty but completely and utterly useless_ , he accused.

“I entertain,” he said aloud.

_It's all a fa_ _ç_ _ade_.

“That's showbiz, darling.” He smiled at himself pityingly, before taking off the headphones and getting to his feet.

He plugged himself into the wall to charge, clicked off the lamp, and stumbled back to his chair in the darkness. He sat back down, crossing his arms on the counter and laying his head on top. There was no point in going home tonight. He closed his eyes, willing the day to melt away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> FLIRT with me: http://motmotfluttersforth.tumblr.com/


End file.
